WOW!
Google and Blogger randomly changed the size and font of my text after I published it and checked it
A screenshot
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Perhaps the pysch op is suggest I am too crazy and evil as a conspiracy theorist to format texts consistently and that I change from one font size to another mid way during a sentence creating extra work for no reason as crazies do?
Random changes in font size and styles in the middle of texts have happened with my Gmail Emails too, suggesting a pattern, a pscyh op
Who would have thought a little piece of fiction updating 1984 may have upset the king pin of censorship, Silicon Vally Tech Giant, Google so much on this little old blog, the only one of 3 of my blogs which Google, Blogger has not removed, censored?
Is it a sign the WEF elite know it is the end?
FICTION
Any resemblance to Orwell s classic 1984 or to current events is a mere coincidence.
Chapter One
It was a bright, cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteeen.
Rosemary Duffield hurried towards Victory Mansions, the Labour Party HQ, named to make it clear to MPs that the relationship between them and The Party Leader was one of master and slave, and that the outcome of any encounter between The Leader and an MP was valways victory (for The Party Leader) or defeat (for them).
Cowering with her head down,, isolated, atomized, in the huge,empty London street and battered by dread a terrible wind, she approached the huge door of the Party Command Centrre.
She felt dread at the prospect of the fury of The Leader if she dared mention that the voters, the public are in revolt against his policies and that something had to change or there would be a revolution...
A cloud of wind blew inside with her. Her state of confuson and fear did not change on entering the imperial building with its momumental architect and hi tech survelliance system.
At the end of the hall, a picture covered most of the wall in between the video cameras watching her, recording, tracking and observing her every move. It showed the enormous face of Kevin Starmer, the Leader of the Party, Big Brother, looking sternly down at her with his quiff of slick grey hair, grey face, grey eyes and grey moustache.
Rosie, a small woman felt even smaller, more worthless, useless as she hurried past the huge poster to the steps. She did not even bother to get the elevator because a crowd of Starmers top aides were waiting for it and they had to take precedence. If she tried to join them, the top aides known as the “lads” would just shove her aside anyway. They belonged to the inner party circle due to their family connections.
Rosie hurried up the cold, hard, stone steps to the top floor. Guards were standing outside the office of The Leader. They checked her ID as an MP and finally allowed her to enter into the ante chamber. The Secretary looked at her in bewilderment and astonishment when she said she wanted to talk to Sir Kev and it was urgent.
The secrety was used to carrying out instructions without questioning from higher authorities and could not decide if a mere MP was a higher aurhorty or not. Overcome with inner confusion and unable to solve the problem, the secretary gave a firghtened wave of her hand and indicated to Rosoe to go into the office.
“Well, I guess, I guess....errr....I guess....there is no harm in your reporting directly to Sir Kev,” she flustered to Rosie. “Normally,MPs from the Party Zones only reply to emails sent by the Party when and how they should. No MP ever comes here in person to talk to Sir Keiv, you know?”
“I know,” said Rosie, turning pale.
She knew she was not allowed to speak or criticize the Leader of the Party. There was no law forbidding it but it could mean that she was exprelled from the Party.
But something inside her rebelled. She remembered her election pledges to her voters. She recalled dimly that somewhere in a yellowed book from 1926 which she had managed to obtain from the parliament library, it was mentioned that Britian was a democracy and th MPs like her were the representatives of the peoople, who had rights and duties.
Inside Starmers office, a voice was reading out Britains debt iigures and calculating the amount of taxes which would have to be raised to pay the private bankers. It was coming from a TV which showed a financial news channel belonging to the Party.
Rosie glanced outside the window.
Outside, the world looked cold. The wind blew dust and bits of paper around in the street and there seemed to be no colour in anything, except in the posters of the Rulers of the People that were everywhere. The dictatorship was omnipresent even after covid.
“Waddya want?” said the Chief of Staff, Sue Grey, looking up in astonishment from her position beside the huge desk of The Leader
Sir Starmer, on the phone, looking out of the window. He was issuing instructions and his voice was clipped and mechanical.
Behind him she could see London, the biggest city of WEFEANIA in 2024.
She could see the white roof, high above the houses, even a kilometre away. From Starmer s office it was just possible to see the three letters BBC written in enormous letters on the side of the building:
“I want to speak to Sir Kev Starmer,” said Rosie.
“Waffor?” snapped Sue. “Can t you see The Leader is too busy to talk to mere MPs?”
“Shouldn t he make time to talk to us, the representatives of the people?”
Sue stared at her in disbelief. Incredulity gave way to fear and confusion.
“The Prime Minister is the People,” She snapped back. “His Decisions are Democracy. You are
here to love, worship, adore and obey the Prime Minister and support him in his difficult task of imposing a dictatorship on the UK.”
Rosie smiled. It was a good idea to look happy when you were facing the Leaer of the Party and his circle.
She struggled to remember why she had come, the people in her Constituency, their hunger and cold....
The determination wellled up in her to tell the truth to the Party Leader.
As soon as he put the phone down, Sir Kev turned back to a file on his desk without looking at her. His face was grey, his hair was grey, his eyes were lifeless as they scannned a document.
Rosie twisted the piece of paper one of her Constituents had given her. It was a bill for her elecricity which she could not pay.
“Sir Kev,” Rosie musttered.
He looked up but did not seem to see her. He had a smile on his face but it was a general Party
smile, the kind he wore for Party conferences.
“Yes....”
“I want to ask you something," she stuttered.
His face changed instantly.
His mouth dropped. He closed the file shut.
“Ask me something, did you say?” he said, staring at her, puzzled.
“I am an MP, remember”, she said.
“So?”
“People voted for me just like you. No, more people voted for me than for you, I think.”
He looked shocked. His mouth almost fell open.
“But I am the Leader of the Party.”
“What matters are the voters. People did not vote for massive tax increases,, 100 billion in extra taxes to loug the hole created by private money debt to bankers, for cuts in help paying their billls, cuts in the NHS, cuts in eduation, and more surveillance. They voted for the opposite.”
Sir Keier looked at her in astonishment. He turned to Sue who looked at him in equal bewilderment.
They both forze in silence, overwhelmed by some tangible inner confusion.
Rosie realized she had caught them out. They had been put in a position where they actually had to think for themselves and they were not able to do so.
They were used to mouthing the slogans of the party and of the managerial, technocratic elite and had lost the capacity to think for themselves.
Faced with a question, a new situation, they were flabbergasted, paralyzed.
“I also wanted to ask about the sleaze, the freebies from Lord Alli for you and your circle,” said Rosie, ganing in confidence. “All this while the people starve and go cold.”
“Get out!” cried Sue, coming to her senses.
Her order was instinctive, the gut reaction of the Party to any one who challenged them.
“You will be punished for daring to ask a question and crticize the leader, you know,” she added.
“I am resigning as a Labour MP” declared Rosie.
She had realized this was he ronly way to escape the punishment, ostraicization, smears that
were inflicted on any MP who questioned The Leader of the Party, and she had her resignation letter ready
Sir Kev stared at her in disbelief and amazement.
“Resign? But that means you won t get the freebies, the big perks, the trips to Davos,
the easy life, hob nobbing with the rich and powerful which WEAFEANIA
only gives to those who serve it withaout questioning.”
Sir Kev looked troubled for a split second as he reflected on his own words.
He had accepted the automatism, the cold reality of the incredible reality of the Establishment who had put him into this position and surrounded him with sycophants to do whatever they wanted with no self will, no self consciousness, no thought at all in his mind. All this, for tickets
to concerts by Taylor Swift. Was it worth it?
And could he continue if the MPS and voters revolted?
His automatism only worked as long as the MPs also abdicated all free will and free thought.
What was he to do now when there ws an MP whose desire for freedom and dignity and truth and justice was so great, she was willing to take the risk to tell him he had betrayed the voters?
It had never happened before. He had only met the fatalistic acceptance from MPs that he was
The Leader of The Party and whatever he said was the law and whoever criticized him or contrdicted him had to be punished.
Seeing no hope of any answer because Sir Kev s inner life was in turmoil from an unexpected new event, Rosie turned and left the office.
“I will just have to organize a backbench majority to oust him,” she thought to herself as she hurried out of Victory Mansion.
No sooner had she stepped through the door, than the sun came out.
Warmed by the bright rays of the April sun, Rosie hurried through the streets to the nearby underground station to go to her train station to catch her train back to her Constituency in Zone 10 of WEAFEANIA.
The trees with their budding leaves suddenly seemed full of colour. Birds were singing. She passed a coffee shop where people were sitting in a lively discussion contradicting eachother.
The feeling of guilt, insufficiency, lack had left her.
“I can do it too,” she thought to herself. “ I can contradict Sir Kev and the Party.”
It was an iconic moment. She felt pyschologically free. She had conscously rejected a role assigned to her by the Party of the abject, self debasing, service serf of WEAFEANIA with no rights at all.
“Yes, I can do it. I can talk to the other MPs. We can settle on someone we all want, a cross party figure, on a list of Ministers and policies including taking back our money from WEAFANIA.
As she approached the ticket machine, she took out her purse with a coin with the head of
WEAFEANIA on it. It was The Leader Charles in Party overalls with motifs of Nature.
Worhsip of The Party and Nature were the official religion of WEAFEANIA.
“We won t be paying you soon to use our own money,” she thought to herself. “We re not going to go into debt and pay interest to you soon. And the people with covid jab injuries
will get help!"
As the ticket fell down into the slot for her to take, she heard a voice saying her train was about to leave.
Relieved, delighed and happy, with a clear conscience for the first time in ages, she rushed to the platform and got on.
Meanwhile, The Leader of the Party sat frozen, gazing out of the window at the cold city below sensing something momentous had happened, but unable to understand what it was....
It was the end of WEAFEANIA, he sensed.
It had come suddenly and been unexpected. A pyschological change had occured. An awakening in the public. The end of WEAFEANIA had come not from an inner change, an internaal cause and not an external one. The Party had not been prepared.It was a victim of its own pyschological gridlock. It had lost contact with the people. Was it the covid scheme which had been their downfall? Sir Kev could not say but he felt a knot his stomach. It was fear.
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